


Hinata Ren vs The World

by 96percentdone (Nakanaide)



Series: Kamukura Izuru vs The World [3]
Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: And Now For Something Completely Different, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Original Character Death(s), it's depressing as shit, this is my farewell to danganronpa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9328487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakanaide/pseuds/96percentdone
Summary: "I’ll never forget what I saw. You were lying in the fireplace covered in soot, scrapes, and bruises, but you were laughing. We all asked you if you were okay, and all you had to say was “You win this time, chimney,” as if you were going to challenge it again in the near future."The prologue that no one asked for. Please read the author's note.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I was going to save this for much later in the series. It would be a grand reveal, with build up. I had this written for forever, but I was waiting for the right time to post it. I waited too long however. Dangan Ronpa 3 happened, at it singlehandedly killed my love for all of Dangan Ronpa. I can't bring myself to care about any of it. Even the characters I once held so dear to me, like Komaeda.
> 
> As a result, I know that I'll never be able to make myself write anything more for DR ever again. I won't be able to finish this series, nor anything else I've started for it (like The Butterfly Effect). So. I consider this my parting gift. In a way. it's really depressing but I hope you enjoy it.

You were born two years before me. Mom wasn’t married then, and you were born in a rundown shack in an alley because Mom couldn’t afford the hospital. I wasn’t alive for that, but I remember when Mom used to tell the story. Even though it was a freezing cold night, and Mom didn’t have the adequate means to care of herself, much less you, she was so incredibly happy you were born that New Year’s Eve. She loved you so much; she named you Ren just to prove it.

I wasn’t even a concept yet, but I was also happy you were born. I loved you too.

I was born two years later, on New Year’s day. Nobody could have planned that coincidence, but that’s just how it ended up working out. We used to joke about it all the time, as if God wanted to create twins except he messed up how you’re supposed to make them. This time conditions weren’t nearly so bad. Mom had married our father, and in honour of both the New Year and the beginning of a new marriage, I was named Hajime. It wasn’t very original, but it was my name.

You were only two years old at that point. I don’t think you remember it, but according to Mom you were just excited for my birth as our parents were. You apparently asked all kinds of questions, but the one you asked most often was “Can I see him yet?” And <om would laugh and just say “Soon. He’ll come home with us soon.” You would pout, apparently unsatisfied with that answer, but you’d leave it alone for another ten minutes before asking again.

When I finally came home you ran up to me while I was being carried in mom’s arms. You stared me down with those red eyes of yours before asking “Why is he so tiny?” even though you were two years old and weren’t exactly tall. Our parents found it just as funny as I do, but you and your self-proclaimed “big” self decreed to the world, “Don’t worry, Hajime. I’ll make sure you’re not tiny forever.” You’d definitely be embarrassed if I reminded you of this. Honestly, so would I.

You were so happy to have a brother. I wasn’t aware of what happiness was, but so was I.

When you weren’t at school we spent all of our time playing games. Checkers, tag, Monopoly, all kinds of games, and with most of them you completely destroyed me. You were faster, stronger, smarter, although you never rubbed it in. Much. Brothers are still competitive after all, so gloating was unavoidable, but we always had fun regardless. Sometimes you’d even let me exact revenge, even though you won fair and square.

I was never good at games, even back then, but I remember there was one game I could always beat you in: Hide-and-Seek.

You would win any other game, so Hide-and-Seek quickly became my favourite. I don’t think you ever figured out the trick to winning a game of hide and seek. Instead of picking places like under the table, which I picked _every single time_ , you would always try to go for the strangest places that were seemingly impossible to hide in. It never occurred to you that you should hide in extremely simple and obvious hiding places. Or maybe you were just trying to prove that it _is_ possible to hide in those weird high-up places.

You would never pick the same place twice, from the cupboard up next to the microwave to the top of the biggest tree in the front lawn. I think my favourite is the time you tried to hide in the chimney. If you hadn’t fell, you probably would have won. You crawled in the fireplace, climbed up into the chimney, and through strength and willpower kept yourself hidden there by pressing yourself against the walls, not making a single noise the entire time you were up there.

It lasted an impressive ten minutes before you slipped and fell down back into the fireplace. The noise was so loud I immediately ran over from the bedroom, Mom and Dad coming shortly after. We all thought you seriously hurt yourself, because the thud was so loud, except you were fine. I’ll never forget what I saw. You were lying in the fireplace covered in soot, scrapes, and bruises, but you were laughing. We all asked you if you were okay, and all you had to say was “You win this time, chimney,” as if you were going to challenge it again in the near future.

You never did. I think it’s because Mom and Dad scolded you for trying something so reckless almost immediately after you said that. But even as they chastised you, you never lost that mischievous glint in those red eyes of yours, grinning even when they dragged you to the bathroom to clean you up and treat your injuries. We all laughed about it later, but no one found it as funny as you did.

We were happy, living together in blissful harmony, but it only lasted five years.

Unfortunately for us, when I was five mom passed away. She had been ill for a while, combating leukaemia, but the cancer proved to be too much for her. I was young, so I didn’t really understand why she was gone, or why she wasn’t coming back. She was dead; I knew that, but death didn’t seem real to me when I was little. I know much better now.

You were different though. You were seven, not much older than me, but far wiser. You understood, and it was through your understanding that I reached my own. You were quiet, and spent long periods of time in silent contemplation. I only knew you cried when I put my ear to the wall between your room and mine and heard the muffled sobs.

After Mom died, things changed permanently, and not just because of her death. You changed, too. Unlike me, you never recovered from her death. I moved past it, much like most do. Occasionally it’d hit me full-force and I’d cry, but soon I’d go back to living my life, day to day. You didn’t. Once Mom died you slowly drifted away, into yourself.

It wasn’t an immediate process. At first you would just have the occasional bouts of silence when we were in the middle of a game, with a far-off look in your eyes. I thought you were spacing out, so I’d whine really loudly to get your attention back. Immediately you’d snap back to the game, smile at me, and then make a move that signified my loss was completely inevitable.

Months passed and the bouts of silence soon turned into you spending more and more time in your room. Whenever I went to see you, you were reading, or working, or taking up some kind of hobby. The years went by, and you became more and more engrossed with whatever you were working on, determined to learn and master everything you could. You no longer had time for me.

 

“Onii-chan, do you wanna play a game?”

“Maybe later, Hajime. I want to finish this first, okay? I’ll play with you after.”

 

“Hey, nii-san, are you busy? I was wondering if—”

“Can’t. Busy.”

 

I didn’t understand why. I didn’t pay much attention, because I was little. All I knew is you were always busy, and you didn’t want to be around me anymore. I was in your way. When I was younger I thought that maybe you were hiding somewhere. Maybe you found the perfect hiding spot and you were waiting for me to find you, and the person who I was talking to that had your name wasn’t you, but some evil clone. I’d check around the house to find you, but I never could.

As I grew up I learned this wasn’t a game. We weren’t playing hide and seek anymore.

When I was eight, I accidentally stumbled upon the truth, and I didn’t know what to do.

It was late, very late, and I was having a hard time sleeping. Normally I’d pass out immediately, and nothing could wake me. That night was different. I no longer remember why I woke up that night, but just as I was about to roll over and fall back asleep I heard something. Someone was talking. Upon listening further I realised it wasn’t just one person, but two. An argument. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but I thought it was a fight from the sheer volume and intensity of it.

I had to know what was going on, so I crept out my room. From the darkness in the hallway I saw a crack of light coming from your room so I snuck up to your door. I was wrong. It _wasn’t_ a fight; it was father yelling and you flatly replying “Yes, sir.” I didn’t enter the room, out of fear, so instead I kept peering through the door simply watching.

I don’t remember what father was upset about. All I know is I saw his humungous silhouette angrily gesturing. I could barely see him, but I clearly saw you. You were sitting at your desk, nodding in agreement with every “Yes, sir.” It went on like this for another three minutes, before father stopped moving and hissed something I couldn’t catch. You nodded, before quietly whispering “Yes, fath—”, but you didn’t get to finish your sentence. A resounding slap finished it for you.

Silence filled the entire house, before father growled “Do not. Call. Me that.” You nodded, and father turned away from you, making his way out the room. At the sight of him turning, I fled back to the safety of my room, and hid under my blankets, frozen in fear until I couldn’t hear father stomp down the hall anymore.

I didn’t get any sleep that night. The entire night I was plagued with fear, with that scene ceaselessly repeating in my head to make sure I wouldn’t forget. I didn’t. I was eight, and suddenly I understood why you spent all your time in your room. It wasn’t because mom died; that was just the beginning. You changed, but so did father, and it appeared you were the one to pay for it.

But I was eight, and I was scared, so I didn’t do anything. I still regret it.

After that night, I did my best to forget what I saw. I wanted to forget, to pretend we were a functional happy family, but I couldn’t. In fact I found myself paying closer attention to your interactions with father. You slightly flinched whenever he said your name at dinner. His tone got lower whenever he spoke about you. You didn’t speak unless spoken to. You were hardly spoken to. His smile was forced in your presence. You had long since stopped smiling.

At night I’d do my best to go to sleep early. The later I was up the more likely I’d be awake for the screaming. I hated the screaming. I knew what was happening, and every time I just curled up into a ball under the blankets, covered my ears, and waited for it to stop. Sometimes I’d end up crying. I didn’t have to see you to know you weren’t. You weren’t the type to cry. You would just sit there and take whatever’s coming with an unreadable look on your face. Sometimes, out of some kind of miserable curiosity, I’d stick my ear to the wall, to see if I could hear anything from your room once the shouting was over. I never could.

I spent a lot of time hoping that maybe things would work themselves out. Maybe we would go back to being a happy family overnight. Maybe father would go back to being the father I knew, and you would stop hiding. Maybe I’d get my brother back.

I did nothing for years, except hope. I didn’t know what to do to help you. I’m sorry.

As years went by, you left your room less and less, and eventually you just stopped. The only times I ever really saw you anymore was in the mornings when you walked out of the house for school, and the occasional trip to the bathroom. You didn’t eat dinner with us anymore. For a while, I didn’t think you _ate_ dinner anymore, until the one time I saw you in the kitchen getting yourself leftovers.

You had walked into the kitchen, as if I wasn’t in there, and immediately went over to the refrigerator. As you pulled out the leftovers you wanted, I realised just how different you looked. Your hair had always been longer than the average guy, because you liked it that way, but it was so much longer than I last remembered. Your hair had never been past your shoulders before. What you were wearing was even more shocking to me. A button up shirt and dress pants, as if you were going to some fancy event, even if you were actually just grabbing leftover rice to eat up in your room. I realized that I haven’t seen you in casual clothing for years now. Did you even own casual clothes anymore?

Almost as if to confirm it was you, I called out “Ren…?” At the sound of my voice, you whipped around and blinked, almost as if you couldn’t believe you were being addressed. You were so confused; I don’t think you expected me to talk to you. I didn’t expect you to even respond.

You stared at me, in silence, and it was only for a few seconds but your face showed more emotions than I’d seen from you in the past couple of years. Within that brief period of time, you went from surprise, to confusion, to anger, to sadness, and finally back to that unreadable look that had long since become the norm. It was only for three seconds before you turned back to what you were doing as if it didn’t happen, but those three seconds of silence were life-changing.

At that moment, the bubble of denial-induced wishful thinking broke, and I realised couldn’t sit around anymore. I had no idea what I could do, but I figured I’d try something. I had to try something. You’d become a stranger in this house, and I didn’t even notice. I was too busy hiding from the truth to realise just how much you’d changed. You were surprised I even acknowledged you. Had it really gone this far?

So I talked to father. I told him what I saw, and what I knew. He was surprised I knew anything at first, but eventually he sighed, as if he were sorry. We had a really long conversation, and I thought that by the end of it he’d understood that he can’t keep taking out his frustrations on you. I thought he understood, as he looked remorseful, and he even promised he’d apologise and stop.

I thought things would turn around. Maybe things were finally fixed. I was wrong.

I was there for the apology; it sounded sincere. You didn’t react to it, keeping a stoic expression before flatly accepting it. I don’t think you believed anything would actually change. I couldn’t blame you. When his incredibly long apology was over, he left the room. I was about to follow suit, before you spoke. “Hajime.” Now _I_ was surprised. When was the last time you spoke to me? When was the last time we even spoke?

When I turned back to you, you looked like you had several things running through your mind that you wanted to say, but you didn’t say anything. Instead, your red eyes bore into my soul as if you were hoping for me to understand without you having to talk. I don’t know what you were trying to say. I couldn’t look at you for very long before I was overcome with my own guilt. I apologised, although I don’t know if you heard. I couldn’t see your reaction; I left the room before I could hear one.

I didn’t hear anything at night for weeks. You even came down for dinner with us once or twice. You hadn’t had dinner with us since you were eleven, but you were fifteen now. It had been so long, but I was so happy to see you eating with us again. You didn’t attempt to make conversation, and anything father said was awkward. The whole thing was awkward, but it was nice.

I knew things weren’t going to be perfect, and things were probably always going to be an uncomfortable mix of awkwardness and guilt, but I thought that overtime, things would slowly get better. Father seemed remorseful, and while I don’t think you fully trusted the situation, I thought you were getting better yourself. You started leaving the door open to your room again. If I ever looked in, you would almost always be at your desk on the computer, but sometimes I caught you doing other things. You didn’t give up your various talents after all.

I was about to go to sleep one night, when I heard it. I didn’t even have to think about what it could be; I immediately knew. Even though there wasn’t any screaming, the storming down the hall was absolutely unmistakable. Father didn’t change. He had no intention of changing. It was all just an act to put me at peace. He wasn’t remorseful for his actions; he just regretted that I found out. Father didn’t change; he just switched tactics. He wasn’t screaming; In fact, I don’t think he said anything at all. I didn’t have to guess at what was happening; the sound of someone slamming against the floor was loud enough to confirm it. Ten minutes later, I heard him leave. Then the silence returned.

I was naïve to think it would work. If father switched tactics, so would I.

I wasn’t surprised when I saw you the next morning. You were a battered mess that not even you could hide. If anyone took even a glance at you, I don’t know what conclusion they could possibly reach other than “That kid took a beating.” I don’t know what you told people if they asked, but it must have worked because the authorities never came. You used to lie to me, but that day you just glared at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so angry and hurt my entire life. You stormed out the house that morning.

I decided that morning I was going to tell the authorities. This had gone on for far too long, and if I couldn’t count on Father to see reason, then I had to force him to stop. But I didn’t get the chance to; Later that day I got a call from the hospital telling me that father got in an accident on his way to work, and he was in a coma. Apparently the other driver was texting while driving, and slammed into him, totalling the car, and rendering father unconscious. When I told you the news, you didn’t respond. Your face was blank, as usual. What you must have felt when you heard that is something I can’t even imagine? Were you grateful? Upset? Or did you just not care?

He didn’t make it. After two days in the hospital he died, and you and I were sent to live with our aunt and uncle. Once again, you had no reaction. When we moved in with them, you didn’t say anything, just listlessly moved your things from the truck to the apartment. Once you were moved in, you locked yourself in your new room with your computer. We didn’t see you for days.

On the night before the funeral, I knocked on your door. You didn’t say anything, and just made a grunting sound I took as permission to enter. You didn’t look up from your computer; you just kept typing, waiting for me to say my piece and leave.

“I spoke with our aunt and uncle about what happened, to you, I mean.”

No response.

“I—we agreed that you don’t have to go to the funeral tomorrow.”

Silence. Even the clacking of keys stopped. I waited for your response, but you didn’t say anything. “Ren—”

“Don’t call me that.” You aggressively cut me off, before regaining your composure. “I’ll go. Don’t worry about it.” I nodded, and left.

You did go to the funeral, as promised. You wore a suit to the occasion, and you tied your incredibly long hair back. You didn’t say anything the entire time; you just stared at the casket with that cold, unreadable look I’d grown all to used to. I still don’t know what you were thinking. You were the first to leave when the service was over, and you locked yourself back in your room as soon as you got home.

You didn’t come out for three days. Eventually you stopped coming out at all.

After the funeral you started attending school less and less, and eventually you completely dropped out. The school was unhappy to see you go, because you were a super-genius, but you couldn’t be swayed to go back. There wasn’t any talking with you; all conversations we had were one-sided, with your eyes never leaving the screen of your computer. You’ve stopped going by name, apparently switching to Kamukura Izuru. The last remnants of my brother are gone.

You’re eighteen now. It’s been around three years since you last left the house. I don’t think today will be any different, but I still try anyway. “Okay, I know it’s been three years, but could you at least _consider_ doing something besides pissing off strangers online?” I ask, stopped by the door. I didn’t really care how I phrased it anymore; you’ve been asked this so many times in so many different ways, but you never respond. You didn’t this time either.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I sigh, before giving him the rundown. “Anyway, I’m about to head out. I’m going to be busy, so I’m not going to be able to run errands for you today. If you need something, you’re on your own until I get back, okay?”

You grunt, and I get the feeling you weren’t really listening, as usual, but I thought I’d try anyway. I don’t know why I tell you these things anymore, because you don’t respond.

I don’t know who you are anymore. The you who sits at the computer is pale from the lack of sun, because you don’t leave your messy desk for any reason except to go to the bathroom. You don’t speak, only muttering whenever you’re typing up a long retort to something. You still don’t wear casual clothing, even if you do nothing but stare at a screen. You’re hair is long, but it’s unkempt and floor-length because you haven’t gotten a haircut in years. And your eyes, those red eyes that used to be so lively, are now so cold and unfeeling that I can’t look at your face anymore.

You look like you’re dead. I guess, in many ways, you are. It’s my fault, isn’t it? I couldn’t help you, when you needed it most, and now you’re a zombie who never leaves the room. I keep thinking about all the things I could have done—that I should have done, and I didn’t, because I was scared, and because I didn’t do them, you’re gone. I keep hoping that maybe one day, the brother I knew would burst back into existence, as if he was hiding somewhere and finally came back to me.

I miss my brother, but I don’t think you’re ever coming back.


End file.
